


The nature of love.

by Dualscar



Category: K (Anime)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-18
Updated: 2013-02-18
Packaged: 2017-11-29 17:32:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/689596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dualscar/pseuds/Dualscar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The things Reisi Munakata thinks about when he is out to have a drink with none other than the Red King himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The nature of love.

**Author's Note:**

> Doubles as a character study of sorts, for Reisi.  
> Disclaimer: K and all its characters belong to GoRA. I merely weave tales.

Our love is like the eye in the midst of a storm. While the tempest rages around us, and while we are the ones with the might to quell it, in the center of it all, there is an impenetrable stillness where there is only you, and I.

Conventional definitions mean nothing here, where every glance that is exchanged between the momentary blinks conveys something which sounds clearer in silence. Does love really have to mean verbose validations of affection; does it have to mean calm waters with all ships at port? Does it have to mean roses and chocolates and candlelit dinners? Can't it mean, I question, the smugness that overtakes me when in the midst of a boisterous party at your bar, you shift your gaze towards me, if only momentarily? Can't it mean all those times I let your belligerent clan and their notorious activities "escape" my gaze? Can't it mean the thrill that arises from the fear of letting you slip through my fingers, your smirk as I taste cigarette smoke after what has it been, a month of going without planting my lips upon yours?

Your fingers brush past mine when you and I reach out for the glasses that the bartender slides across the slickly polished counter. I take note of the scar beneath your silver ring and muse about where you could have gotten it from. After all, it's rather humbling when even we kings - who live our lives atop a pedestal and wield immense power that would suffocate any normal man - are also capable of incurring little injuries such as these.

Then I wonder if you ever think about things like this. To any passerby, you wouldn't seem like the existential thinker sort. But a few years of having your acquaintance have taught me that the cogs do turn in your head when you appear to all the world to have shut your senses, and eyes, off. After all, always voicing one's thoughts is not the prerequisite for possessing a sound, rapidly functioning mind. I do know, however, that the nature of said rapidly functioning mind is different for different people. As I take a sip, I find myself wondering what _your_ mental landscape is like. Is it a continual wildfire? Are you tormented by your own conscience?

Existential thinking really helps one develop more sympathy and understanding, I've noticed. It's easy to openly oppose people and their views and criticize their thinking. It takes greater fortitude, however, to attempt to see things from another's eyes, regardless of how confused it may make one feel. I've noticed that confusion and desperation to understand are often the gatekeepers to tremendous insight. It's often better to have faith in the fact that beyond these drab plains lies a breathtaking valley with a smattering of flowers full of the nectar of sweet understanding.

You sigh. I stop thinking for a while and take another sip. But me being lost in thought is not something that your uncanny amber eyes miss. Your voice bears hints of amusement when you question, "Something wrong? Munakata."

My response sounds far more composed than my mental portrait would convey. My mind has me wading through a sea of thought tangents, but my voice sounds crisp and professional. As nearly always. "Of course not. What makes you think so?"

You shrug. "You looked... troubled." As if it took you a great deal of effort to say that, you take a tired sip. Or maybe it's just the creases under your eyes looking more pronounced in this lighting.

I allow my lips to curl upwards in the tiniest of incredulous smiles. "I can assure you I'm not troubled. But I appreciate the concern." That earns a "tsk" from you, and you murmur, "Ever so formal... do you ever drop that pompous tone?"

I've learned to increase the time between others' questions and my replies so as to avoid saying anything which I will want to correct or reword in the future. This doesn't apply only for you, you know. But my logic is that it is better to make a good impression on people with my answers. After all, there is no point in being wonderfully eloquent inside your own head and being unable to let that show with what you say. There's no use in tripping over your words - the smarter person isn't the one who speaks up the fastest, but the one who makes the most valid points. Much better, I reason, to take your time to respond wisely and let people become aware of your first-rate thinking.

It's even more charismatic to interpose a mysterious smile while you're formulating your reply of choice. It gives off an enigmatic impression.

Ploys for the sake of perfect socialization don't really work with you, however. It's like your fire burns down all those elegantly crafted screens and gets to the truth almost automatically. I wonder if you're often doing the same thing to me and my words. (I admit there are often disparities between what I say and what I think. But diplomacy is something I have taught myself diligently.) Is that the reason for some of those satisfied smirks you sport, as if enjoying an inside joke with yourself?

Do I fear that ability of yours, however? No. Frankly, I don't. There's solace in being able to flick verbal darts at you as you lazily toss them aside without incurring any injury. There's solace in knowing that one person - the most improbable one, at that - understands you and doesn't quite judge you for it; that someone is finally at your level. I understand you, too, but I might not be completely sure that I actually believe in that statement. Some part of you always seems out of my reach.

So a part of me hopes I don't sound too defensive when I say, "It sounds better than that impolite slur you've always got, don't you think?"

"...Hmph." You finish your drink and place the glass on the counter. My eyes flick over to it and return to my own glass. The atmosphere in this place is pleasantly lively, with the chatter of patrons buzzing distantly in my ears, and I'm comfortable in my seat. There's an unceasing warmth emanating from you, too, and that adds to the sense of relaxation that has settled into my muscles.

When the bartender comes by again and looks at us expectantly, I have finished my drink too, and I politely decline any further orders while you shake your head and look away. For a few minutes there is thick, unbreakable silence between us, and I amuse myself with catching snippets of the little quarrel a young couple beside me is having. The things people do when young and impassioned... really, it's ridiculous. I've been fortunate enough not to make too many of those mistakes, because of my inherent cautionary tendencies; even the mistakes I have made are nothing too severe, and mean nothing now that as the Blue King, I am far above all those little concerns. Which great-aunt of mine I angered and which friends called me a know-it-all are all things which are behind me.

I twitch my head and catch your fiery eyes glinting in my direction; I let a few seconds pass, pretending not to notice before turning around with a stock expression of mild surprise on my features, gazing back. Your lips move. "You..."

"Hm?"

"How long has it been since you've changed your glasses?"

I chuckle. It's an interesting side of you, the one that notices little details in the environment around you. (The other side of you notices the big picture, but unfortunately, there is no in-between. Which probably explains your delinquent tendencies and irrationality.)

"Quite a while, now that you mention it."

"Tch... they're boring."

"What is it to you?"

"I said they're boring."

"Unfortunately for you, your boredom is not my concern." That is half a lie, but even I don't notice it until after I say it. No matter, you will see through the multilayered answer anyway. That is something I really appreciate, by the way. I don't see it very often in people who converse with me, and the ones I do see it in don't need to know what I'm thinking.

"Heh." See, you've seen through it already. A little worry I've always harbored is that you _don't_ actually grasp my meaning and that you take things I say literally - which means you're simply masking the discomfort you feel when I retort to you and blatantly express dislike. Then I remember that I'm underestimating your mental capabilities yet again. You might be slow, but you're 24, and Red King to boot; I'm treating you like an 18 year old delinquent runaway from school.

It's interesting how our spheres of thought are vastly different. Through my interactions with you, I've noticed that while your logical ability is quite alright, it is limited to experience and observational skill - in other words, nothing out of the ordinary. What you do show surprising maturity in, however, is your emotional plane. Unmatched loyalty, a steadfast value system; things like these are what draw your clansmen to you and create bonds stronger than blood. It's actually quite admirable. (Yes, and all that is belied by violence and simmering anger, but none of it is born of immaturity.)

I specialize in quite different aspects, however. Immodest as it may be, my objectivity is something I quite like about myself. (But I am a king, and if I am unaware of my own strengths, it speaks ill of my maturity.) My inductive reasoning, my rationality - these are things which often make enemies out of people, but I am lucky to be in a clan where these qualities are prized, where these qualities led me to the very top.

I theorize that this difference in dispositions is what caused us to clash immediately. I remember the days of bitter hatred, when exchanging remarks laden with snark were the mainstay of our brittle acquaintance. I remember being secretly envious of your depth of insight when it came to value systems, I remember despising your impulsive behavior and how strongly it opposed my desire for things to go according to plan. I believe you disliked me for reasons which were the opposite of mine.

Time taught us that often opposites can complement each other very nicely. And thus, with my curiosity overriding my hatred, I promoted you to the position of friendly rival. Somewhere down the line, you ended up in my bed, but friendly rivals we still are. More than friendly, to be accurate.

The vein of mutual understanding that runs between us is strong. Thus our presence in this bar, away from the people who know us and get in the way when all we want is to feel comfortable, yet mentally stimulated. To use the common oxymoron, we want to be alone together, and that is something we have long accepted. I vaguely notice you leaning over and whispering something, before brushing your lips over my ear. I should really swim out of my thoughts. I smile and whisper something back, and your fingers idly play with my hair.

There's a certain rush that comes from being treated this way by someone I used to hate, and I can't get enough of it.

My thoughts stray over to one of the first times we'd met in a bar, though that was by accident. It was back when we were transitioning out of mutual dislike of each other, and something you said still lingers significantly in my memory.

_I don't fear you._

I can't speak for you, but when later I processed what you'd said, I realized something rather numbing. It quite amuses me to think about it now. But back then, I was surprised and admittedly unsettled to realize that that statement meant we were equals, and there was no malice between us. Then what exactly was the nature of the "hatred" we claimed to possess for each other? Wasn't it simply meaningless to pretend we truly loathed each other? Yes, we clashed. Yes, we disagreed. But did that really indicate hate? Being different from someone isn't akin to hating them.

I had to let this simmer for a few weeks before it became crystal-clear to me when I saw you next. And this time, you walked away with raised eyebrows because the way I'd dealt with you wasn't like how I used to deal with you before this. I was cool and confident, and I could notice it in myself.

Since then, we've moved forward greatly. Since then, we've always been part of a delicate dance, both of us maintaining impeccable balance and grace. It can get tiring, of course, this facade, but with each other, the facade seems more natural than anything else. Ironically, it's the best part. It's a continual game and no one wins or loses.

...really, sometimes I think too much. Underestimate you I might, but I am certain metaphors like this never occur to you. The self-imposed rules of the game say I should stop, but recently I've been feeling like I want to give in to the heady pleasure. But to allow you the satisfaction of knowing what I feel... no, I don't think I will do that. I tell myself that the alcohol is speaking.

Meanwhile, you are getting impatient. Keeping you waiting is rather delightful, though. I enjoy the occasional needy pout I see upon your features. I decide to oblige you, however, and we leave quietly after paying.

Your fingers find their way over to mine and intertwine with them. From then on, there is a steady warmth by my side, seeping into my limbs and adding vigor to my steps. You really make for a good portable heater in winters. Tonight is an anomaly, however – you normally never choose to hold my hand. Perhaps, miraculously, the same things that I am keeping from you are running through your head. That fills me up with a strange hope and my fingers momentarily tighten around yours.

After a while of walking, I decide to ask, “Where are we headed?”

As I’d predicted, you don’t respond, but your pace slows in uncertainty. You make a non-committal sound, and I shake my head in mock disapproval before continuing, “My place? Or do I drop you off at the bar?”

You halt abruptly and fix me with an intense gaze. Any normal person would have recoiled beneath it, but I simply find it challenging. And any challenge is one to be tackled, especially when it is presented by you. I counter it with a look of mine that practice has taught me is cool and piercing. Your eyes do not waver, but the effect both our stares are having isn’t lost on the few passersby, who suddenly begin to sidestep us by a larger margin, a few daring to glance at us a second time. In casual clothes we may be, but I assume us kings have a presence that is larger than life, contributed to in part by our powers. It is only natural that a staring contest between us would elicit such responses from people passing by us on the street.

To me, however, these things that I notice in my peripheral vision don’t register as much as the gentle sway of your scarlet locks in the crisp breeze, the twitch at the corner of your lip, the way your eyelashes flutter when you blink lazily, the incline of your nose, the angle of your cheekbone, atop which the remains of an old scar are still visible – and how you’re inching closer towards me. I regain my composure and step backward. You hiss slowly in what I take to be impatience, and I counter with a smile of my own, the unspoken message I’m transmitting being _Later_. Sometimes you have no awareness of your surroundings, and that can prove to be disastrous – or at least deeply embarrassing – if I am not to watch your actions in public.

I haven’t been expecting you to grab my arm and whisk me away to the nearest deserted alley, but to lash out would create a bigger scene than ever. So when you slam my shoulder against the wall of a building, its paint peeling away, I simply go, “My, my. How barbaric.” I enjoy the attention, nevertheless.

You say nothing, choosing instead to move in on me and rest your chin on my shoulder. For a while all that is heard is the distant honking of cars and your breathing, every exhale of yours tangible to the little strip of skin left uncovered by the scarf around my neck.

You sleekly disrupt the makeshift silence. “Munakata.” I take slightly longer to blink upon hearing my name sounding more attractive than it is. Every syllable is heavy with a sweet, rich emotion, and it’s beginning to affect me too. My hand rests itself atop your arm. I have never loved listening to my own name more.

“Hm?”

The scarf has been identified as an intrusive third party that hinders your objectives. You swiftly pull it off from around my neck, but with you this close, I don’t really feel the cold bite as much as it would have were you further away. My eyes dart to the entrance of the alley, the opening to the street we were on, keeping an eye on it lest we should be watched. I am distracted by you hungrily pressing your lips into the skin of my neck, which you caress with the fingers of your other hand. I click my tongue in apparent exasperation, but don’t attempt to stop you. Why would I? Besides, your impassioned movements, your torso molding itself to fit mine as you move in closer than ever; all these are rather intoxicating, you know.

You disengage momentarily so your sparkling amber can lock with my violet, and I take the opportunity to begin to state, “Here, of all places – “ You cut me off with a finger tracing around my lips, and I instinctively part them, a finger which you slide into my mouth. I let my tongue moisten the first joint, and then lightly bite down on it. Here, of all places, indeed. But I am not complaining – not yet. The same finger makes its way around my lips again. Meanwhile, your right hand is slithering beneath the fabric of my shirt. That is where I draw the line.

After all, I haven’t even kissed you yet.

I push the finger which rests on my lips away and rather hurriedly lock our lips together, the pressure I’m applying making my need evident. Naturally, you don’t respond until after a few seconds; tilting your head and wrapping your arms around my torso. My fingers grasp at air before fisting themselves in your hair; I adore how the locks are impossibly soft despite looking so unruly. At this point who walks in on us is a worry that has already sailed away to other shores, and I’m concentrating instead on drinking in the sensation of kissing you – the mild taste of liquor as your tongue pushes its way forward to encounter mine, your characteristic spicy scent, the constriction in my own chest easing and tightening, easing and tightening. It takes a while to realize that this behavior speaks poorly of my own restraint – which is very important to me – and so I break away, inhaling deeply to stabilize my breathing faster.

You look smug, smugger than ever, and the rules of the game state that I should never leave you satisfied for too long. My thumb rubs smooth circles into the skin of your left cheek, and my lips curl upwards as I reach forward to pepper small kisses beside your lips, “Suoh – “ down your jaw, “- how very vulgar of you – “ pushing away the fur that lines your jacket, “- to lose control in public – “ to lick up the side of your muscled neck, “ – don’t you think?” and as a final touch, blow slightly on the patch.

You hiss. I chuckle and peck you on the lips.

“Control, Suoh.” I’m enjoying frustrating you; I’m enjoying it, and you know that I am. That, obviously, ticks you off more, and I can feel a hint of your muscles tensing. It amuses me to know I’ve got you so utterly in my power right now. Equals we might be, but this occasional slip of the chain into my hands is inexpressibly interesting. There is always more fun in an endless game when I have the winning edge for a while.

I raise my hand to push the perpetually errant hair off your forehead in a manner that is meant to be deliberately calm and soothing; as my thumb rests on your temple, I can feel the steady pulse of life beneath the skin. Pulse that has probably been rudely forced to slow down.

I tilt my head rather innocently, and the intensity in the way you look at me is more ferocious and unrestrained than ever. Just _how_ much have you reined your impatience all through this evening, Suoh? Because you seem to be having vast quantities of it that you lost control over rather rapidly.

“ _Restrain_ yourself,” I whisper, and it is almost taunting. At that moment, I am certain these are not the eyes of a man, but a wild lion. At that moment, electricity crackles between the two of us.

The very next second, all is calm. You step back and exhale sharply in dissatisfaction, and my hand returns to my side, my gaze calm and businesslike once more. I methodically turn to see if any curious passersby have been dogging our movements, but there is no such person in sight. We are alone with our own breathing and the rush of cars on the main street, once more.

“Something wrong?”

You look away. “Hn… ”

“My place, then.”

“…you’re irritating, you know, Munakata.”

I sneer. “You still love me.” That shuts you up.


End file.
